


An Inconvenience

by voidify



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Azelma is a badass, Brick-Based, Gen, Hitmen, I'm Bad At Titles, Kinda Cracky, Mentions of Slavery, Post-Canon, Thénardier is a dickbag, a surprisingly humorous fic given the subject matter, cathartic character death, he deserves it tho, probably has anachronisms but I don’t care, the major character death warning is because thénardier dies, very heavily implied physical and/or sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 08:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18311993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidify/pseuds/voidify
Summary: When Thénardier is struck down by a cart at a slave auction, Azelma’s primary grievance with his death is that services she’d paid good money towards had been rendered redundant.





	An Inconvenience

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I wrote something that isn’t valvert or valvert-adjacent for once. Anyway this is absolutely my headcanon for Thénardier’s fate post-brick-canon; enjoy.
> 
> Thanks to onegaymore for beta and cheerleading!

Azelma gritted her teeth. She hated accompanying her father to these auctions. The disgusting spectacle of human beings for sale, and her own flesh and blood remorselessly participating— the smell of shit and misery— the constant overwhelming noise of the crowd and the auctioneer’s ramblings (Azelma doubted he made any sense even to those with a better grasp on English than she had)— but possibly the worst part was the way Thénardier insisted on acting as if Azelma was anything but his daughter. He said it made him look younger to have a young woman acting the part of wife or mistress at these events; it absolutely did not, but she had to put up with it, or he would do worse. 

It was some solace to know that she wouldn’t have to endure this many more times. No, not merely to be able to guess it by his advanced age and the laws of probability, but to _know_ for sure. When Azelma had found out she had become the primary beneficiary of Thénardier’s will (due to her being his only known living relative), she’d gone to the man who called himself Mr. Jones, with the scowl and the knife, who could make anyone disappear for the right fee. _Only three more weeks_ , she reminded herself; it was less than a month until the date they’d agreed upon. Then, if everything went to plan, she would be free. 

But things did not go to plan.

Later in the day of the auction, Thénardier was making a spectacle of himself, drunkenly yelling about some topic or another, when an out-of-control cart went barrelling right into him.

A commotion sprung up. Azelma rushed closer, instinctively— but, though she could not get close enough to see, she could tell that he wasn’t dead yet; instead, he was yelling even louder than before, in a bastard mix of languages— making desperate pleas to be saved in English, but spattering every sentence with all the filthiest curses and insults of argot. Azelma wondered for a moment if there were any other French speakers in the crowd, and remembered in the nick of time that it would be _extraordinarily_ suspicious to laugh when a man was being crushed to death. 

People tried to lift the cart— but they could not; its cargo was too heavy for anything but a miracle to save Thénardier, but not quite heavy enough to have killed him instantly. Well, he seemed to be fading now; from the sound of it, he had forgotten all his English from the agony, and had no objections to the idea of his last words being an insult to a stranger’s mother.

Then, the yelling stopped. He was dead. 

Azelma did not know why her legs gave way, leaving her crumpled on the muddy ground. She did not know why, when she touched her face, there were tears in her eyes. It could not be sadness, nor grief— she was _grateful_ he was dead, dammit— he’d done nothing but cause her pain all her life— he was an evil man who deserved this and worse— perhaps it was relief, or shock, or something like that— well, whatever it was, she realised suddenly that crying would certainly make her much less suspicious, and given the absolutely _bullshit_ time proximity of this incident to the change in his will, she would _need_ that.

When authorities approached Azelma, she asked the kind of questions one would ask when genuinely overcome with grief, and told a few lies— as well as a few things that were technically not lies, such as _‘I can’t believe this happened’_. She learned that the cart’s driver had been practically soaked in gin, and had also died in the crash, and therefore, that there were no plans for a full investigation (a fact that might also have owed to her flawless performance of the mourning daughter). Then, she was given meaningless (and unnecessary) condolences, and all but instructed to leave.

It occurred to her as she left the scene that she would have to tell Mr. Jones that his services were no longer needed, and ask him for her money back. 

_That_ was going to be an awkward business interaction.

***

“Look, lady, like I told you before, _no refunds_.” Azelma had no memory of that having been mentioned in their earlier meeting, but knew better than to attempt to argue the issue— she supposed such a policy was likely a given in Mr. Jones’ line of work. “Just as fuckin’ thrifty as your old man, you are.”

Azelma _certainly_ did not appreciate the comparison— not only was it insulting, but inaccurate; he had been _terrible_ with money— but made no attempt to comment upon it. Instead, she merely restated the _premise_ for her request, in case that had not been clear.

Mr. Jones rolled his eyes. “Look, doesn’t matter if he’s already dead, you’re not gettin’ your money back. Spent it already, if you need to know. You’ve got your inheritance, go do whatever with that, but the blood money’s _mine_.”

Azelma sighed as she turned to leave the clandestine meeting-place. She had heard through the grapevine that Mr. Jones did not take kindly to ladies offering _alternative payment_ , so there was little to do now but give up. Well, though this was somewhat of an inconvenience, it was not a truly unfavourable outcome. Thénardier was dead, and if a Hell existed, he was most definitely there. Azelma could not be linked to the death in any way, as the cart had genuinely been a serendipitous coincidence. And, as Mr. Jones had correctly assumed, she _did_ have the inheritance— which, all things considered, almost certainly contained more assets and less debt than it would have if Thénardier had lived for another month. 

Azelma was free, and earlier than expected. Now, she could decide what to do with that.


End file.
